


Thought warmed to evening

by crackinthecup



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Russingon is faintly alluded to but it doesn't have to be interpreted that way, and hence mild mentions of gore, mentions of Alqualondë
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 13:49:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5872756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As their ship bears them ever closer to Beleriand, young Celebrimbor shares a moment of comfort with Maedhros.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thought warmed to evening

**Author's Note:**

> Written at the request of a lovely anon on Tumblr. As ever, the title is squeezed out of _From the very first coming down_ by W. H. Auden.

There was nothing but sea and sky; nothing but the gentle toss of the ship and the heaviness of salt crusted over skin. Celebrimbor gazed up at the stars, picking out the silvered threads of constellations as his mother had done once: bold Menelmacar and soaring Soronúmë and Remmirath blooming in a jeweled glimmer. Something stirred within him, something trembled even though there was no breeze to knife into his bones: the same light poured over him that had dappled his mother's hair in a land now seemingly toppled beneath the edge of the world, forever beyond his reach. He had watched the glow from the Mindon Eldaliéva blossoming into the air until his vision had blurred with weariness; he had let it drench him in silver and home, but steadily it had slipped from him to burnish the dark surface of the water, fainter, fainter, fading into gloom. 

_Only darkness has been left behind_ , his father had told him, sidling up to him, cold hand curled around his shoulder. Celebrimbor had said nothing. The blackness he could remember, yes; as if with eyes gouged out he had stood and the malice of the deed had sprawled unchecked, tightening round his neck like wire. But he could also remember the horror burned into his retinas, the slash of a sword less metal than blood, screams eternal in the air, and his father's face pale and stern, all angles and blazing eyes. 

But it was not his father making his way toward the stern of the ship. Maedhros leaned his forearms against the gunwale. He did not disturb the susurrus of the sea, the creak of timber as Fëanor paced and circled, stolid as steel and animated by neither rest nor victuals, merely by the fire scorching through his veins. Maedhros lifted his eyes to the stars as one loath to continue a fruitless search, yet ever bound to it by the leap and stutter of his heart. Celebrimbor knew that urge, he felt it in the ache churning in his own chest: his uncle missed someone too. 

''Do you think we'll ever see them again?'' he ventured, and the thought was suddenly easy to unloose. _Soon_ , his mother had promised, the word too vague on her lips. _You go first and I shall follow_. Out at sea sound carried unimpeded, and his voice rang clear, still childish, still sweetly silvered; Maedhros was pained to hear the uncertainty flickering behind it. 

''Of course,'' his uncle murmured to him, without pause or consideration, conviction like an arrow nocked to the bowstring by a practiced hand. ''The Hither Lands draw nigh in sight. Swiftly shall the ships sail back, and then we can work toward setting things right.'' 


End file.
